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Tuesday, December 16, 2008

It began as a simple business transaction. I was selling something on Craig's List, he emailed to offer a lower price. We went back and forth for over a week. A time to meet was scheduled ~ a parking lot, then something came up, another time was planned, perhaps a coffee shop, then one of us was sick, then someone else offered more money, they never showed up, back to the beginning, the price he offered. A bargain.

Ten days later or so ~ it turned into meeting for food, to exchange money for item ~ I was his guest at the warm cafein a tiny gray strip mall. Soothing green walls, full of framed photos Lisahas taken, and a game of Cricket silently playing out on the flat screen TV. Surrounded by women in beautiful, bright Abaya dresses ~ huge almond-shaped eyes dark as night and a tiny heart-shaped face smiling at me from behind a chair ~ we sat in the middle of the cafe. A warm and delicious sheezan clubwith fries and lots of chai to nurse the tiny hangover I was too embarrassed to let him notice. So, rather than hide it, I whispered about it, guiltily looking around at the families; and we laughed.

Everyone who came into the cafe knew him, greeted us, looked deep into my eyes with a smile. The husband-wife team who own the cafe gleaming brightly around us ~ two of the absolutely most beautiful people I have seen in a long time. This place and these people, the closest thing he has to family; the only family he has here. When he wanted more chai, he simply walked back into the kitchen to get it.

The reason for the meeting...money, the item ~ forgotten over pleasant conversation, shadowed slightly by nuances of darker truths. But we laughed.

He glanced up, caught my eye, and quickly looked past me ~ his dark, somber eyes meeting the sunlight that had just peeked out over the gray clouds outside.

He waited. I wasn't sure what to say. I had come only to sell the item, then go home to continue packing. The only thing that came naturally was a quick quip: "Well, that is a 10-page application, in triplicate....and a non-refundable application fee."

We laughed.

No other response necessary. No application necessary.

But, then seriously, and sadly, I explained I am leaving ~ I have nothing to offer. So much nothing, in fact, that I was surprised any one would ask for any of it.

Later, he would send a brief email, "hoping to be honored with my friendship."

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

In a time when the Presidential Radio Address has been replaced by the YouTube Video Address, and when you can download your favorite radio show to listen to on your computer at your leisure, the smoky, distant intimacy of a radio and my favorite radio voice still entrance me ~ seductive but safe, mysterious while somehow comforting, faceless yet so familiar. Often, when I get pulled, or I sink, into a story being told to me, just to me, on the radio ~ I will look at it ~ look directly into the face of the radio telling me the story. I catch myself doing that, like tonight; then, embarrassed, even though I'm alone, I look out at the tempting sky, with a sheepish grin, resting my very next breath on the very next word which will float up to my ear.

Tonight I got home and sat in the garage for 20 minutes, not wanting to miss a second of an interview with a funny, awkward, author ~ he was sweet even. And I understood why an entire neighborhood of families during the Great Depression would crowd around that mysterious box, would stare expectantly into its center...and watch it....weave words of wonder.

I have nearly finished my second reading of Lost City Radio by Daniel Alarcón: "For 10 years, Norma has been the on-air voice of consolation and hope for the Indians in the mountains and the poor from the barrios -- a people broken by war's violence. As the host of Lost City radio, she reads the names of those who have disappeared -- those whom the furiously expanding city has swallowed."

The book itself is a mystery to me. It's not laugh-out-loud hilarious at a mile-a-minute as the one I read two months ago; and it's not as sleepily seductive or sadly poetic as the one I read after that; nor is it brimming with that type of complicated prose where you feel oh-so-smart just reading it and have to look up more than a dozen words to get through the damn thing. So I ask myself, why this book? It's so quiet most of the time ~ what's so OUTstanding about it? What's so bloggingly brilliant about it?

But somewhere inside I know. I read it. Again. All night.

Her voice was her greatest asset, her career and her fate. Elmer called it gold that stank of empathy. Before he disappeared, Rey claimed he fell in love again every time she said good morning. You should have been a singer, he said, though she couldn't even carry a tune....She was a natural: she knew when to let her voice waver, when to linger on a word, what texts to tear through and read as if the words themselves were on fire. The worst news she read softly, without urgency, as if it were poetry.. . . . .

Hers was the most trusted and well-loved voice in the country, a phenomenon she herself couldn't explain. Every Sunday night, for an hour, since the last year of the war, Norma took calls from people who imagined she had special powers, that she was mantic and all-seeing, able to pluck the lost, estranged, and missing from the moldering city. Strangers addressed her by her first name and pleaded to be heard. My brother, they'd say, left the village years ago to look for work in the city. His name is... He lives in a district called...He wrote us letters and then the war began. Norma would cut them off if they seemed determined to speak of the war. It was always preferable to avoid unpleasant topics. So instead she asked questions about the scent of their mother's cooking, or the sound of the wind keening through the valley. The river, the color of the sky. With her prodding, he callers revisited village life and all that had been left behind, inviting their lost people to remember them: Are you there, brother? And Norma listened, and then repeated the names in her mellifluous voice, and the board would light up with calls, lonely red lights, people longing to be found. Of course, some were impostors, and these were the saddest of all.. . . . .

Of course, he'd heard Norma's voice before. In 1797, the owner of the village's canteen had a good radio, with an antenna long enough to get a signal from the coast, and so, each Sunday, the women and the children and the remaining men crowded in to listen. It was what they did instead of church. They gathered an hour before to eat and drink and gossip. Potatoes, mushy overripe fruit, and thin silver fish salted in broth. Loud voices, the beginnings of a song. They brought portraits of their missing, simple drawings that an itinerant artist had done years before. They hung these on the walls, rows of creased and smudged faces Victor didn't recognize, whose mute presence made the village seem even smaller. Then, at eight o'clock, there was a hush, and static, and that unmistakable voice through the tinny speakers: Norma, to listen and heal them; Norma, mother to them all.

My cell phone rang while I was at work; I didn't recognize the number, only that it was from Houston. I didn't want to answer. They left a voice mail. Then, it rang again ~ urgently ~ flashing "Mami - Cell" on the cracked purple screen.

It was my mom, urging me to call "our Pastor" because he had led a prayer for us on his show, RADIO TRIUNFO. My mom spelled out the URL for me in Spanish. I tried to tell her that I don't believe; I can't; why would I? How could I? And besides, does God really listen to A.M. radio? To Pentecostal Revival boleros? (That's what is playing right now, as I listen on-line.)

Mija, she begs ~ Please ~ It's true she says. She explains. Papi has three tumors in his upper arm; he can barely even move his neck; he needs surgery to remove them. I asked, again, if they have made an appointment to go to the hospital, not just to Dr. Diaz's office. She tells me: But we went to Church, Sunday. Ay mija ~ cantamos ~ oramos ~ nos dieron cena. She used that sing-song voice, extending the second syllable for an extra beat; it always feels like a heartbeat to me, when we speak like that. So, they prayed; they sang; they had dinner there. He seemed to feel better after, less pain., she says. MOM ~ por favor. Surgery. Please. She changed the subject.

She begged me to call El Pastor. I listened. I shrank to the size of my 12-year old Self. I mumbled, "sí, sí, sí," and hung up. I told my co-worker. She has two grown sons. She gave me the Mom look. I got up and scuffled to a private room, to call El Pastor.

Ay Mija, he shouted in Excited Radio Voice when I called. I let him talk. I listened. I promised I would tune in, on-line. He said that when he asked listeners to pray for me, the light-board lit up like fire ~ calls were flooding in. I told myself I must have been the most popular sad story that day. I thanked him. I made promises.

Because I do try to do, sometimes, what I promise people, I did go to his show on-line. I will listen. That's all ~ it won't kill me. But will not believing as I listen kill me? He asked me in Spanish, well, told me: You don't go to church do you? ~ In order to "make up" for my not believing, I told him that I do go near a Church ~ when I volunteer at the shelter to serve food; they provide a service, "The Message," complete with a rather fantastic salsa-type band. I hide in the shadow of the hallway connecting the ministry to the dining hall, and I listen before I go cut mold off the bread. Is that close enough?

The only thing I remember now, of what he murmured to me, is: "En esta vida estas lista para dar, ó para recibir. Necesitas, simplemente, recibir. Gana tu fuerza, y luego puedes dar." ~ In this life, you are ready to give, or to receive. You need simply, to receive. Regain your strength, and then you can give.

Back in my office, my co-workers are listening to the radio. On-line. Streaming. They each entered the contest for a trip for 4 to Hawaii or Disneyland. They both said that if either of them wins, we will all go together. I told them there is no way I will go to Disneyland; then they remind me I love the "It's a Small World" ride. OK, I say.

They turn back to work, to the beat of the music. They each listen intently.

Saturday, November 08, 2008

Some princes are born in palaces. Some are born in mangers. But a few
are born in the imagination, out of scraps of history and hope. Barack
Obama never talks about how people see him: I'm not the one making history, he said every chance he got. You are.
Yet as he looked out Tuesday night through the bulletproof glass, in a
park named for a Civil War general, he had to see the truth on people's
faces. We are the ones we've been waiting for, he liked to say, but
people were waiting for him, waiting for someone to finish what a King
began."If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place
where all things are possible," declared the President-elect, "who
still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who
still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer." (See pictures of Barack Obama's victory celebration in Chicago.)Barack Hussein Obama did not win because of the color of his skin. Nor
did he win in spite of it. He won because at a very dangerous moment in
the life of a still young country, more people than have ever spoken
before came together to try to save it. And that was a victory all its
own.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Friday, October 31, 2008

We get all sorts of calls at our office ~ constituents want new laws, want to get rid of current laws, want help with potholes, with noisy neighbors, with pollution, with crime, with parking tickets, with parks, and everything in between. Often, we help by simply listening ~ sometimes we can't offer tangible assistance, for example, to a tenant in federal housing, where we don't have jurisdiction. It's frustrating for them, and for us.

But we can lend an ear, a shoulder to cry on, or serve as a sounding board. Often, not always, but often enough, the caller gives a sigh of relief, and says, "I know you can't really do anything about [X], but thank you for listening."

Never, ever, underestimate the value of the words, "Thank you for listening."

Today a caller said to me, "Yes, I want to know how my Councilmember wants me to vote on Proposition [XX]." I explained to her that we can't really tell her HOW to vote, but I can answer all of her questions and give her all the information she feels she needs in order to make an informed decision. She patiently listened to all of the information, the Pros and Cons, the relevant issues the City Council has addressed in previous votes, etc. Then she said, "I thought Nancy was one of the most Progressive members of the Council...." I said, "Oh ~ probably THE most progressive."

"So why are you being so wishy washy in telling me how to vote for this?"

We both laughed ~ and she let me be diplomatic by repeating that I can't tell her HOW to vote.....but I urged her to LISTEN TO ME, as we discussed the particular proposition. ~ :)

Then she asked me about another ballot measure. She had her voter information pamphlet with her but she said there was no information about State Proposition [XX]. I asked her if she had access to the Internet, or had a computer at home.

She said no.

I asked her if she could come by City Hall, and I could print up the material for her.

She said she was house-bound.

I asked her if she would like me to mail her the material to her home address.

But she wanted to VOTE NOW ~ not to wait for the mailman.

So, I asked her which ballot measures she was still unsure of, and I told her I would read the information to her from SmartVoter.org. She really wanted to make informed decisions about everything from the State Props. to the East Bay Municipal Utility District races(!). I adored this woman! I thanked her repeatedly for wanting to make informed votes, and she thanked me for reading everything to her. I clicked through the various explanations of the Propositions, the Pros and Cons, I read lists of supporters and opponents to her, and I clicked on to other web sites when she asked me what other groups, such as the League of Women Voters, said about certain issues.

We discussed the Presidential race and whether she should vote for Obama, to contribute to "a huge mandate," or go ahead and voter for the Green Party, "since we have a little wiggle room and just to make a statement about those policies." We talked about the Pros and Cons of each type of vote, and I told her I would leave that one entirely up to her.

After about 20-30 minutes, I had to go ~ but we were finished with her ballot and she was ready to mail it in.

"I feel very validated in my vote," she told me.

I feel very validated in Myself, I thought ~ wishing I could tell her.

She thanked me, I thanked her, we laughed, she promised to call again if she had any other questions.

Often, even always, we need that other person as much as they need us ~ if only to say, thank you for listening.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

A few years ago, a new tenant moved into my apartment building. She was super-friendly and funny, but in an awkward sort of way. I just assumed she used humor to distract people from getting a good look at her hands ~ the middle and index fingers of each hand were missing, and the rest of each hand was so scarred it looked like perhaps she had survived a fire. Then the landlord told me that she had some sort of illness or genetic disease, and so perhaps that's why her hands looked like that. I never really thought about it ~ I mean, who am I to ask? It's not my business. So, I never asked and she never told me.

As I saw her more around the building, though, I realized she is a very expressive speaker ~ she waves those hands around wildly to tell a good story, even if that story is, "My first husband, no wait, my second husband drives the Ferraris."

Every once in a while, from her studio apartment two flights up, I would hear her wild laughter, or screaming matches with her "business partner, or maybe fiancé." In the hall, she would stop me and talk my ear off about politics or perfume, the weather or her weltanschauung ~ sometimes her sentences were as erratic as the wild waving of her hands in front of my face.

Somehow, I assumed that the the state of her hands had something to do with her sometimes-strange behavior. I never asked.

Today though, as I walked into the apartment building, she was walking out. She asked me how I am doing, and something about the election. I wasn't really paying attention because I was juggling two bags, and walking, and reading a book, and hurrying to get inside for the strawberry mochi I was craving. Then she asked, "You know, I keep waiting to ask when I'm going to get to vote for you." ~~ I looked up.

In the past 3 or 4 years, I have had maybe 3 or 4 conversations with her ~ she knows where I work and what I do for a living, and around election time I include her in my usual "YOU MUST VOTE LIKE THIS" email rants recommendations. I was just so struck by how much she feels she knows me, all contained in that one question. All I could mutter was, "Well, when there is an election for wackiest neighbor in the neighborhood, you can vote for me then!" She laughed and said she would beat me hands down.

I tried to keep walking inside but she said something about having just sent in her absentee ballot since she is registered in another county, "because of this," and she held up her hands. I must have looked really confused because she asked me, "What, don't you know about this? Remember ~ in 1999, I was carjacked and held hostage for 19 days and shot."

Um, NO ~ I think I would remember that.

I told her it had never occurred to me to ask "WHAT IN THE WORLD HAPPENED TO YOUR HANDS?" I thought that would be rude. She waved away my embarrassment, and explained how one day in 1999 she was delivering a new car to someone in the Bay Area, she took a wrong turn, and carjackers pulled her out of the car. She put her hands up and told them they could take it ~ but one guy pumped the 12-gauge shotgun and shot her at point-blank range ~ just as she crossed her hands in front of her face. I didn't ask how they held her hostage if they shot her first.

Then she showed me how she was shot.

YOU ~ right now, put both of your hands in front of you, palms down; now place your right hand over your left hand; and now raise both hands together in front of your face, at about nose-level. She did that for me, and there was an almost perfect hole, the size of a 12-fuckin'-gauge shell, through her hands.

She said her hands and arms absorbed most of the shot ~ and then she made me feel in her left hand where so many of the pellets are still embedded. You can't really tell, by looking at her face, that she was shot straight-on like that. Her hands and arms, though, tell a different story. When I realized that the shot pellets would have exploded into scores of burning embers, I understood why her arms looked like they had been in a fire.

Then she explained how they tried to rebuild her hands through skin grafts, but it required getting the palms of her hands surgically sewn to her hips, for the grafts to take. She waved her left hand in the air, laughed, and said, "But I'm too animated for that! I told them to only sew one hand to my hip!"

She told me that she considered getting prosthetic hands ~ they would create a winter version and a summer version for her (lighter and darker skin), and could even add beauty marks and tiny little hairs, just like real hands. "But I eat out A LOT," she explained, "and what if the prosthesis flew off at dinner!?"

And she laughed.

Then she said, "But I can still do this," ~ she put her hands up and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Whadda ya gonna do?"

And with a big smile she told me, "And I can still marinate my steaks."

"A lot of bands have something to say," explains TV On The Radioproducer/multi-instrumentalist David Sitek. "We have something to ask."

When I first heard Golden Age, off TVotR's Dear Science,album, I felt like it was the anthem to Election2008 ~ a nation at 'a twilight consciousness', stumbling out of the past 8 Bush Years, blinded by the light at the end of the tunnel, hoping it's not actually a train heading straight for us ~ as the song warns, "Like the sun spitting happiness into the hereafter ~ Oh here it comes like a natural disaster."

Apparently, I'm not the only one who felt this way. Nik Dirga over at BlogCritic, writes: "They're still a band that thrives on tension, but this is also a pitch for global audiences. I don't know if TV On The Radio set out to create the soundtrack to the Bush years, but the push-and-pull of anxiety I get from their albums makes as good a background music as any. Acidic asides on the state of the nation — "I'm scared to death that I'm living a life not worth dying for," goes a line in "Red Dress" — blend with very personal dramas. TV on the Radio are nervous, but their fears make for some unforgettable sounds."

Jon Pareles adds: "There’s still a deep streak of dread on the new album. Its title, “Dear Science,” includes the comma because it was the salutation of a letter Mr. Sitek posted on the studio wall while the band was working on the album. Mr. Adebimpe said it was written “in a kind of kid’s handwriting on yellow notebook paper.” The letter was addressed to Science itself, demanding that it “fix all the things you’re talking about” or shut up." Yup, that about sums up my feelings ~

I could go on and on trying to find the perfect permutation of adjectives to describe TVotR's music ~ moody-soulful-music-layered-under-heavy-elegiacal-lyrics meets heavy-afrobeat-rhythms-with-flowing-orchestral-sounds in a dark, smoky jazz club, they dance and talk all night, drink some 1970's David Bowie with chasers of Purple Rain and Thriller, fall in love and end the night with a bang ~ ~ ~ "bells, timpani, marching drumbeats, saxophone, flutes, husky vocals and a guest appearance from Katrina Ford of Celebration." But I'm not very good at expressing myself so you will have to listen to them for yourself, and see them on tour if you can.

A high-rise apartment building is going up next door to Mr. Sitek’s studio. “They build one skyscraper, and skyscrapers get lonely,” Mr. Sitek said in his three-pack-a-day rasp, lighting up in the alley alongside his favorite Williamsburg club, Zebulon. “So then they call their friends and more skyscrapers come, and they throw a party. And the next thing you know there’s a skyscraper blogging about the skyscraper scene in Williamsburg.”

Early on, TV on the Radio benefited from the talent-spotting and reputation-building of the indie-rock blogosphere. But eventually the band felt typecast. “I’m done with cool,” Mr. Malone said. “I’ve been done with cool for years.”

Sunday, October 12, 2008

~ because any two people in love are simply living a life of grace, and their personal decision to make their love and commitment public is a blessed event, and because who are we to tell anyone whom he or she may love and cherish until death do them part, and who are we to say 'No' when they ask for the State's or the Church's blessing . . . . .

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

There is a pink building two doors over from my building. From my balcony I can see their front doors and into one living room. I don't look, but there has always been one reliable sound from the building that over the years I have come to expect and love.

Morning laughter.

Every single morning, Jerome's wife walks the kids out of the building, around 8 am. Sometimes even on the weekends. She is always, always laughing. She has a very distinct laugh ~ not annoying, not particularly pretty, but genuinely joyful ~ a short sweet laugh that bubbles up from her soul and then floats out of her mouth, as if she had just blown on a dandelion. Her droplets of joy and laughter then float over to hang around our building like a strand of lights.

When her family first moved in, the laugh annoyed me because it was usually 7 or 8 am and I was (often) trying to sleep in. Sometimes I would also mutter to myself, in a groggy grunt, 'what could there be to laugh about at 7 am!?'

Over the years though, the laughter became part of the background noise up here on the hill. Generally, it is very quiet up here ~ you may hear a few birds, perhaps the soft roar of the highway down the street, but never traffic since we live on a dead-end street, and some days not even a peep from neighbors.

Except for her laughter.

Sadly, on September 29th, her husband was killed on highway 580. Jerome always had various household items in the back of his white truck. Whether he collected them around town and then sold them or took them to the junkyard, I don't know. But that's how we all came to know Jerome ~ he was sweet and kind and had the white truck with all the stuff in the back. When one neighbor lost control of her car recently and ended up in the front yard next door, Jerome rushed out to make sure she was OK.

On September 29th, Jerome was driving down 580 when something, a rack or shelving unit, flew out of the bed of his truck. He pulled over on a part of the highway that was at the top of a crest, making it hard for him to see oncoming traffic and hard for cars to see him. One car came over the crest and braked quickly to avoid hitting him, but the car behind it swerved to avoid a collision with the slowing car and accidentally struck Jerome. He was pronounced dead at the scene. We don't know what he was thinking, we don't know his reason for thinking the item was important enough to grab off the freeway. He may have wanted to get it out of the way of oncoming traffic, so it wouldn't cause an accident.

The neighbors say the wife has cancer, and they have two kids. I wondered, again, why such terrible things happen to good people, to joyful people, to warm and caring families.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

1 am ~ feeling the full effects of the recent events, stresses, thoughts, mile-long and unfinished to-do lists, all amidst this Depression2.0 and crumbling financial institutions (hopefully my creditors will go out of business!).

In honor of my unfinished to-do list, I can only think in bullets right now. Current sensory overload contributors, in no particular order, although #1 is the most worrisome:

Received short email from my little brother Rudy Monday afternoon. He also is so busy it was mostly a forwarded message, confirming his next assignment. Six to 12 months in Afghanistan; and he ships out Thursday afternoon, from Dallas. He was in D.C. when he received the email, had to be in Austin the next day, Fort Hood Wednesday morning, and Dallas Wednesday afternoon. I freak out and call him; explain that this is not the way to handle his current family crisis. He points out that Iraq (he spent a year in Baghdad '06-'07) was/is 10x safer than Afghanistan. Yes, I know. He was hoping for the "easiest" of the assignments: Djibouti. Now that's Arrona-style; make the crisis better by doing something harder. I dropped everything at work to book a flight to Dallas.

I will be out of the office for 3 days; my boss pointed out all of the policy issues piling up on my desk.

Realizing I have at least three Ordinances to research and draft by December.

Attending the Mayor's Budget Conference. Five-day shutdown between Christmas and New Year's, without pay. Bah humbug. Sorry mami, no "Channel" for you this Christmas.

Not only do we get Christmas without pay, but no cost of living increase, either.

Which would be ok (PBJ sandwiches are pretty tasty) if the salt in the wounds isn't a City Hall shut-down every other Friday, or, a 20% pay-cut. On top of no Christmas. On top of no COLA. I figure I will have to start paying City Hall just to show up and work.

Realizing I only have a few months left before Everything Changes, if it changes, before I leave City Hall, leave Oakland; existential suicide someone called it.

Getting an email from my Afghanistan research guy in L.A., saying, "Will we get to see your brother when we're there?"

Realizing it's 1 am and there is ajax all over my bathtub. I have to clean; it was embarrassing. But I will be out of town you point out. Yes, but neighbors will be in and out, checking in on Bill and I will be mortified if they see this mess. It's my thing; move on.

Realizing it's 1 am and my laundry is still downstairs. Still need to pack. Oy.

Getting my laundry and realizing it's still damp. Wondering if that cute skirt will dry by 6 am.

But the Good News:

Realizing I have three Ordinances to draft by December ~ at least I will leave a little bit more of a pseudo-legacy, for better or worse. But it does feel amazing to have your name attached to a law. Nerd-alert.

After the family time in Dallas, I will drive to Austin to finally meet up with La Ruby. I can't wait, can't wait. Her name is my birthstone and it shows. She is wonderful.

The new lens for my camera. Beyond my "photo" abilities but hopefully I will learn.

New eye glasses. I found the frames by accident at the "Sundry Store" across the street for $5.99! Then just had my optician add the lenses. Similar frames, from Sean John and Versace and Revlon (!), cost $150 to $200 at the optical place. Cheap Frugal is Fun.

My mom's kooky, adorable phone calls. I spoke with her last Sunday; they were on DAY 8 of no water and no electricity due to Hurricane Ike. She sounded so happy because she told me about the milanesa *deliciosa* she had cooked the night before, with arroz y frijoles y una salsitia buenísima, híjole ~ all by the tiny glow of a little lamp. attached to a generator she was hoping would not burn out Thank goodness they have a gas stove. She explained how she has just been staying indoors eating. "Ay!" she explained, "I have to get back on my eating plan.......Ay, pero mari, que riquísima la milanesa...luego, luego paro de comer." I asked her what they do without water. She laughed and explained that when my dad needs to go to the bathroom he says, "Voy al baño ~ I go outside." She laughed and said "Es funny." I love that. Here are some other Arrona-ismos we have:

Ay, eso es bad manners!

Que dumb.

Que nice.

Estoy aquí watcheando el Tiger Woods. [My dad loves Tiger Woods.]

She explained the back yard was still filled with the downed trees, the downed fence, and tree-limb chaos. Then she opened the door and said, "Oye, oye ~ los pajaritos. Que lindos verdad? Cada día me cantan a esta hora." Even with no water, no electricity, a mess to clean up, and tenants to help with hurricane repairs, she was waxing poetic about the song birds outside, that sing to her every day at that hour. How does she do it?

Now going to sleep, about 1/2 an hour early. Beauty sleep much needed.

Having this song stuck in my head for many months, and Lovin' Kanye with the lovely Estelle, who sings like she just woke up from a nap:

Monday, September 29, 2008

silentlypropelling itself from its web on the ceilingdown down downto the pile of dirty dishesI was about to wash.I don't mind spiders,even when they are inches from my face~ they're nature's architects, you know.So, I stood stilland let it pass,down down down

to the floorscurrying,on its way to another dark corner ~ 'to weave what? and where?' I wondered.

I looked down and quietly started washing the dishes,random thoughts trappedin the waxy web still clinging to the ceiling.

Thank you Shoonyata, for helping me remember my evening in these words. It's not much, but it'll do.

And thank you RJEvans, for your enchanting and enlightening words and photographs, describing the architecture of arachnids and the wonder of the webs they weave.

And so I leave you with some wonderful quotes from a wonderful story ~ Charlotte's Web ~ because everyone should have a Charlotte in their lives.

Wilbur:I think you're beautiful. Charlotte: Well, I am pretty. Nearly all spiders are good looking. I'm not as flashy as some, but I'll do.

Wilbur:Are you writers? Charlotte's daughters: No, but we will be when we grow up. Wilbur: Then write this in your webs, when you learn: This hallowed doorway was once the home of Charlotte. She was brilliant, beautiful, and loyal to the end. Her memory will be treasured forever. Charlotte's daughters: Ooh, that would take us a lifetime. Wilbur: A lifetime. That's what we have.

Charlotte: Trust me, Wilbur. People are very gullible. They'll believe anything they see in print.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Direct from Mudflats: Tiptoeing Through The Muck Of Alaskan Politics. I think the site is getting an overwhelming amount of hits because the page keeps crashing, so I am going to copy and paste the entire article down below, after the (great, and my favorites) pictures. YouTube video and complete Picture Gallery of the rally are included on the Mudflats site. Mudflats would appreciate anyone who can post the pictures and article, with links please.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Sunday was a beautiful, perfect-weather kinda day in Oakland. And there is no better way to spend a sunny afternoon, the last day of Summer, than . . . . working. Sadly, Job # 3 demanded serious attention Sunday and so I did the next best thing to sunning myself lazily at the Lake ~ I took my laptop and paperwork to the nearby teashop, L'Amyx on Lakeshore Avenue. Oh yes, it was just like enjoying the Lake.

But all was fine with the world because I love L'Amyx and I had a favorite book to re-read, especially all the pages I marked as my favorites (nerd alert) . . . yes, I was still procrastinating, up to the last possible second, from the document review. But I was enjoying the tarragon chicken-salad sandwich on toasted Milton's bread(!), my favorite. Um, I did not want to spill crumbs all over my laptop, OK? And besides, my book has wonderful sections such as this one:

Mr. J. P. Hamilton, confronted on his doorstep by three dark-skinned children clutching a myriad of projectiles, was duly surprised. As old as they had imagined, but far taller and cleaner, he opened the door only slightly, keeping his hand, with its mountain range of blue veins, upon the knob, while his head curled around the frame. To Irie he was reminiscent of some genteel elderly eagle: tufts of featherlike hair protruded from ears, shirt cuffs, and neck, with one white spray falling over his forehead, his fingers lay in a permanent tight spasm like talons, and he was well-dressed, as one might expect of an elderly English bird in Wonderland -- a suede waistcoat and a tweed jacket, and a watch on a gold chain.

And twinkling like a magpie, from the blue scattering in his eyes undimmed by the white and red surround, to the gleam of a signet ring, four argent medals perched just above his heart, and the silver rim of a Senior Service cigarette package peeping over the breast pocket.

"Please," came the voice from the bird-man, a voice that even the children sensed was from a different class, a different era. "I must ask that you remove yourselves from my doorstep. I have no money whatsoever; so be your intention robbing or selling I'm afraid you will be disappointed."

Can't you just see it all? And hear it? I drank in the words like I did my tea ~ slowly, sipping, savoring. And, I flashed a self-satisfied Cheshire grin at that Oxford comma.

Finally, when I was done with my first course, it was time for dessert: a gigantic slice of chocolate cake (with vanilla cream cheese frosting!) and glass of whole milk. It was time to start working and face the music, which, given how long this was going to take, sounded like 'O, Fortuna' from Carmina Buranain my head [yes, it really was the first thing that popped into my wee brain1]:

So, it was time to move from the counter, to a table ~ to spread out the laptop, the paperwork, and, most importantly, my cake and milk. I moved the cake and milk to the table first; there was a woman sitting at the next table, with a date, and when I walked back to the counter, I looked over to see her eyeing my cake with ardent desire. She hates me; I know it. I slinked back to my seat, and the couple was practically sitting in my lap ~ it was that crowded (but still so quiet and calm).

Since I was practically a part of their conversation, I did not eavesdrop so much as let their words wander over to my ears. It was immediately clear that they had met on-line, and this was their first meeting. Of course. Who would really go on a first date at 4 pm on a Sunday, if not two people who need a quick exit strategy . . . just in case; but if they liked each other, they had all day to spend together.

Oh, these poor, poor victims of the cold, cruel delusions floating around in cyber-space. The cute girl had themost nervous giggle, and she had her hands on the table, constantly fiddling with them. So-So boy must have had nervous-leg syndrome, because his left leg was bouncing so hard I thought it would catapult him through the window. This is how parts of their conversation stumbled along:

Cute Girl: [Something about Palin] ~ I mean, I don't think my mother could be Vice President....[something else about Palin].

CG: Oh, well, yesterday I worked a booth at a wine festival. But they stopped serving at 6 pm; and the festival wasn't supposed to be over until 7 pm! Why would they stop serving at 6? I had plans to get drunk! [pause...pause...] What else do you have planned today?

SS Boy: Laundry.

I started texting friends, describing the scene to them, and exclaiming that I would either kill them, or kill myself ~ to save us all from this torture. It lasted another 20 excruciating minutes or so, and they finally got up to leave. That is when I noticed the pièce de résistance . . . well, let me preface this by saying that Cute Girl was, in fact, pretty. I think she was quite pretty, in fact. Not as in, "Well, she has a pretty face." I really thought she looked nice. Now, let me point out, she was on, shall we say, the voluptuous side.

OK. We have established I am not a terrible, bitchy person, right? Right? OK. So, when she stood up and turned around, her backside facing me, bless her heart, I realized she was wearing a white dress with huge, black horizontal stripes.(!) Oh, the Humanity. The disservice, the travesty, the crime, committed by those unforgiving stripes. [I will admit to you that I made this observation as I sat there in my green Oakland t-shirt, which now sports bleach spots, a faded denim skirt, a tangle of unwashed curls piled on my head, and my blue eyeglasses. So what do I know, right?]

They finally walked out, thank you Baby Jesus, and almost immediately went to opposite directions as they exited the door. Then, as an afterthought, they remembered, "Oh right ~ the goodbye hug!" So, they turned around and hugged . . . and she gave him the pat-pat on the back(!) The type of quick hug that says, "Well, we're never gonna get that hour of our lives back." Oh that poor man. She did not give him the squeeze ~ that hug that lasts a few seconds too long, that says, "This Booty will, in fact, call you."

Somehow, though, I do think they sort of made plans to see each other again. Unless they were both lying.

And THAT, was my Sunday afternoon. ~ :) ~ Then I was up until 2 am, finishing that document review. :(

1. 'O Fortuna' will forever live in the "creeped-out/scared" part of my brain because I saw it performed years ago in San Francisco. Michael Tilson Thomas conducted the San Francisco Symphony (which was amazing) but the lyrics were sung by the Boys and Girls Chorus. After a while, it creeped me out that hundreds of kids were singing that tune, given that The Omen featured that evil little boy. The set-up was the same as that in the YouTube video ~ chorus in the back, up high, behind the symphony. At first it was powerful and intriguing, but after a while I kinda freaked out(!)

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

I like old stuff. I fell in love with my apartment building because it was built in 1928, and it shows ~ it wears its age proudly. My mom freaked out when she saw the place (it needed a lot of work and I got upset and told her she had "no vision"). I put the TV in a cabinet in the nook where the Murphy Bed used to be. I didn't let my landlords "remodel" my kitchen to add Italian tile and glossy black counters; I prefer the old built-in cabinets with glass doors. My dining set and the furniture in my bedroom, I found in old shoppes and antique/vintage stores in the Mission. I refuse to buy a new car or even a gently-used car, so I recently had my car ('93) painted (for a bargain), because I know it will last me another 5 years or so ~ my sister bought it in 1992. Those Nissan Maximas will not let you down. It now looks like a brand new car. I should get it all souped-up, like Rahul.

So, when I signed up to volunteer a weekend or two for the Obama campaign in Reno, Nevada, I decided to find an old hotel or motel ~ to avoid "Your All-New Atlantis Rediscovered Casino Resort and Spa" and the "Silver Legacy Resort and Casino, featuring Ted Nugent" and the (very nice looking) "Siena Hotel Spa Casino".

Somehow, through a series of random clicks on the internet, I stumbled upon a brief mention of the Hotel El Cortez. The one and only review I found noted, "The elevator alone is an adventure by itself". I had to know more.
But pages and pages of Google search results yielded nothing, except a brief description at the National Park Service, noting the hotel's historic status:

Built in 1931, El Cortez Hotel is one of only three remaining major Art Deco buildings in Reno, and is an excellent example of this style. The foliated motif found on the terra cotta design on the building's base and parapet are remarkable Art Deco details. At the time it was built, it was Reno's tallest building. The hotel experienced such extensive use early on that an addition was built just a few years after its construction. The hotel included the Orchid Room, a swanky bar and a popular restaurant called the Tracedero Room. These rooms were elegantly appointed with stylish Art Deco ornamentation. The El Cortez was a high-class hotel, garnering an astounding $6 per night, compared to the prevailing room rate of $2.50 per night. The El Cortez was built in anticipation of increased divorce traffic after Reno's divorce law was liberalized in 1931.

I had to stay there. I have never been to Reno before, so my first encounter with the "Biggest Little City in the World" and the birthplace of the gaming corporation Harrah's Entertainment just has to feature some semi-vintagey-fun experience. So, I immediately called the hotel to ask about their URL address, to reserve a room. After about 15 rings (I'm persistent), "Ervin" answered the phone and schooled me on the ways of the Hotel El Cortez.

Me: [All eager and chirpy.] Hi there ~ what's your web site address?Ervin: [All cool and calm, but super-nice.] Oh, we don't have a website.Me: Oh. OK, if I want to reserve a room, can I just do that now, with you?Ervin: Oh, we don't take reservations. It's first-come, first-serve.Me: Ok. So, what are your rates?Ervin: Well, Sunday night through Thursday, it's $27 per night, plus tax, and a $5 key deposit. But you get the key deposit back when you check out.Me: What about a Friday night and Saturday night?Ervin: Oh. Those rates are different. It'll be $31 a night, plus tax ~ so, about $35.Me: Um, THAT IS GREAT! (Well, I tried not to sound too excited.) OK. Do you have rooms with two double beds?Ervin: Oh. We don't have rooms with two beds. But the beds in the rooms are double-size.Me: Super. OK, if I show up on a Friday night, what're the odds of my getting a room?Ervin: Pretty good.Me: OK, so maybe I should show up Friday afternoon instead, to play it safe, huh?Ervin: What you can do, is call us about a week before you get here.Me: To what?Ervin: To see how things look.Me: [Wondering, if they don't take reservations, how will they know what to expect?] Super. See you then!

Ervin sounded cool. And old. I can't wait to see him.

So, I will leave work around noon, get there around 4, get the room, and then "see the sights" before I go to the campaign training.

I can't wait.

This is the only really good photo I could find, on Flickr, thanks to the talented Patrick Boury:

Thursday, September 11, 2008

President Eisenhower was born in Texas, and now his namesake Hurricane is heading straight for my Lone Star State, expected to hit my hometown of Houston, around 2 am Saturday.

My brother, his wife, and toddler, are in the evacuation zone so they are packing up, to drive further inland and to higher ground: my parents' house. My brother told me, "We'll bring a few gas generators and movies, and make a nice weekend out of it!" He is clearly the "glass is half-full" representative in the family.

We often use humor in our family to get through stressful situations. Hurricanes are no joke ~ even if your home can withstand the 80-120 mph winds, as you huddle inside in total darkness, plywood boards providing a thin layer of safety against shattering glass ~ they whip up tornadoes, deadly storm surges at the coastline, and flash flooding. Every time my parent's house has flooded, they watch from upstairs, candles and flashlights in hand, waiting for the storm to pass. A few days later, the sun is out, the lights are back on, you step outside and avoid the snakes that have washed up into your yard, and you begin the clean-up ~ my parents always joke that it's as good a time as any to remodel.

But, watching the news, I begin to worry because this one is pretty massive ~ and they predict it will only strengthen before landfall. So, I call my mom to check in.

I ask her how the emergency prep is going. She sounds so calm, as if she is fitting in the hurricane between breakfast and dinner. My dad is out getting the generator and the windows have been boarded up. She will wait for my brother and his family. I ask her if she has plenty of food and if she knows what she will cook before the lights go out. "Oh yes ~ but they're vegetarians ~ can you believe it?!" In Spanish it was much, much funnier. Then she mumbled, "Yo no tengo tantos vegetales." She's right, aside from green bell peppers for chiles rellenos, there are rarely many vegetables in the house (except for all the canned ones in the pantry). Did you know that before I moved to California, I had never seen fresh eggplant, or an artichoke, or fresh green beans?! ~ But that is another story....

Yes, in Texas, "vegetarian" simply means you don't eat blood-read meat ~ this is nearly a sin in Texas! She added, though, that she will make her delicious ensalada de papa and arroz. "But what else will they eat?!" I ask. Then I add, "how about scrambled eggs?" ~ "Ai, si! Con weeneetos!" ~ Yes, she means eggs with little weenies, I mean sausages. Love. Her.

I ask her if she can make her famous entomatadas or simply cheese enchiladas, but she says she doesn't have the ingredients. So, I tell her to hurry up and get out to Food Town!

"But the stores are empty!" she explains. "I can't even find bread! I'm going to have to buy wheat bread!" Love. Her. And it was funnier in Spanish.

So, I will call them throughout the weekend to see how they are holding up ~ with the family lockdown and the hurricane!

Now I will go home to light a candle for Texas, my family, and friends, and to reminisce about my Wonder Bread childhood. ~ :)

P.S. ~ I just found out that my brother's family started eating chicken last month, so everything will be A-OK ! ~ :-)

Today is my mom's birthday. This morning around 3 am, when I went to sleep, I set the alarm for 6 am, so I could call her at 8, her time. She answered the phone on the first ring and asked, "Que pasó mami, te callíste de la cama?"

Harummph. Apparently, mami remembers I am not a morning person ~ she asked me if I had fallen out of the bed and so called her for help. That's how conversations begin and end with mami ~ she makes you giggle, sometimes squeal with laughter.

Earlier in the week, I called her, to play our typical phone game of "what gift do you want," where she says first, "Oh, just you!" then "Ay, just your love!" then "A million hugs!" And, true to our ritual, I have to remind her that I cannot buy those things on the internet, not even on sale, not even on eBay. So she finally said to me, in a grand, dramatic sweep of her voice, "Ay! Quiero oler como tú! Que rrrrr-eeeeee-co siempre hueles mami!"

So, she wants to smell like me ~ she loves the perfume I wear. [Every time I am around her, when I hug her, she will squeeze me tightly and *exclaim*, "Ay! Que deee-veee-noh hueles!" Every. Time. She. Hugs. Me. (Or any of her kids.) She is very dramatic.]

So, I ordered the perfume on-line and had it shipped to her. She called me two days later to let me know the package had arrived. Well, she explained, she wasn't sure if the box was from me because it wasn't my name and address in the upper left-hand corner(!). I smiled and reminded her, "That's right, because I ordered the gift for you ~ the manufacturer had to send it to you!" She said, "Oh yes; I see now. It says 'Channel' right here in the corner." [Yes, she said 'channel' as in TV. But I think we all know what she means, right?]

"Well, can I open it? My birthday isn't until Saturday." ~ She is so cute. She wants me to beg her to open it, to make even the act of opening the box fun and special and sweet and a ritual. So I begged her to open the damn gift. But then she suddenly noted, "Oye mija, esto llegó FedEx! Pagáste extra!?" She got sidetracked wondering if I paid extra for FedEx delivery! I told her NO, and she said, "Good, because you know, I always say, you should never pay extra because a lot of times, it gets delivered really fast anyway." This no longer drives me crazy ~ I love it ~ it makes me smile ~ I let her give me her 'no pay extra' speech, then I say, "OK, now please open the gift!"

So, I hear her open the outer box and when she sees the box inside, wrapped (apparently) very extravagantly and in pink ribbon, she *exclaims* (as she is wont to do), "Ay Mari! Que leeen-do lo envolvieron! Armando! Ven a ver!" ~ She loved even just the wrapping paper and ribbon, and even yelled for my father to "come see!" She did not want to disturb the beautiful wrapping before someone else could appreciate it with her.

Finally, somehow, she reached the actual gift ~ although my mom makes *every* part of *every* thing 'the gift'. I think this is her gift to the world ~ to me ~ to how I in turn want to do things: to make every part of every one, and every thing, a gift. Some people call this the "drama queen" in me ~ I wish I could explain to them where it comes from, and how I get overwhelmed with each of the beautiful parts of a beautiful thing or person (and, conversely, overwhelmed with all of the ugly elements of something terrible).

~ ~ ~

So, this morning, I asked her if she was wearing her Chanel 'Chance'. Claro, she said ~ she was on her way out and she likes to be 'perfumadita'. Then she asked me how a friend from college is doing and, since I love my mom's hilarious puns (or, more accurately, the types of lost-in-translation moments I love), I have to tell you, quickly, how the story of this person's nickname stuck:

Years ago, I was telling my mom about this friend I had just met in school. She asked me what his name was, so I told her: 'Britt'. Without missing a beat, she asked, "Qué ~ como BREAD?" ~ I howled with laughter, and, with giggles in the shape of tears streaming down my face, I exclaimed, "Ay mami! No BREAD ~ es BRITT; como se va llamar PAN !?! [Why would his name be Bread?!]" And to this day she asks me, "Como 'sta el pan?[How's the Bread?]"

[Which is perfect because mi pana, or my bread, meansfriend in some countries.]

So, that's how we started our conversation this morning, at the ungodly hour of 6 am. Believe me, I am rarely laughing that much at 6 am. Then, somehow we started talking about men ~ my mom and I were having girl talk(!). And she told me the story, which I never knew before, of the first man who proposed to her ~ when she was 15 and he was 25. I screamed, "25!? Qué ESCÁNDALO Isabel!" She laughed and said, "Ay mari, qué dramática eres!" ~ [Now, remember the year and small town here, ok? In her day, there was nothing salacious about this age difference, or about an older man asking for the hand of a 15-year-old in marriage.]

And so she began telling me....I sat up in bed to listen.

[Here, I have to apologize in advance for the length of this post. I hope you make it to the end, because it's fun-ny in places, and sweet. ;-D.]

~ ~ ~

My mom explained that she did not know that my Abuelito was actually not her biological father until she was 12 years old. (Remember, my Abuelita gave birth to my mom out of wedlock, and then married my Abuelito two years after.) When my mom was 12, she had to present her birth certificate to her school to get her diploma and move up to la secundaria. She noted that her birth certificate listed her last name as 'Lopez', not 'Casas'. She said that at school later, all of her friends asked her, "Why aren't you Casas anymore? Why are you Lopez now?" Apparently, though, my Abuelito had been very good, if strict, with my mom ~ as good to her as he had been to his biological children. So, she says she "made a secret promise" to herself that she would not leave her parents until she did everything she could to help them put the other three kids through school. My Abuelito at the time earned only 200 pesos per week, for a family of 6.

So, at the age of 13, my mom entered high school but she also worked in a market and as a nanny/housekeeper for a family and she did everything she could around the house to help her parents (clean, cook, iron, babysit). [Remember our family motto: No Lazy Mon Here.]

When she turned 15, her father told her she could go out on Sundays, after finishing all of her chores. He asked her if she wanted to go to Church, to the Movies, or to the Dance. Ha! She ain't no fool! She wanted to cut a rug! (Or, well, some sandy dirt, since the Dance was held every Sunday in the Plaza in Valle Hermoso, where they lived). BUT, my mother explained to me, she could only go to the dance from 8 to 10 pm(!) "Ha!" she told me, "things didn't get good until 10 pm! But I went anyway ~ except your Abuelito made my Tio Toño accompany me as my chaperone."

She said all the other girls from families with more money wore beautiful organza dresses, which were all the rage back then, but my mom told me, "All I had were the '3-yards-for-a-dollar' dresses that a friend would make for me." So, my mom, in her simple dress, noticed this very handsome man sitting at a table in a crisp white shirt and a tie ~ with his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. My mom said he stood out because all the other men were "Rancheritos" in their cowboy hats and boots. So she really liked this guy: Antonio. As it were, Antonio was immediately smitten with my mom ~ she explains what may have caught his eye, "Ay mija ~ qué preciosa era tu mamá en su joventud!"

So, for months and months, they would only see each other in the Plaza, on Sundays from 8 pm to 10 pm, in public, to dance. That's it. Every week my mom's girlfriends would tell her, "Ay, you are so lucky! Antonio arrives at the Plaza just before 8 pm, dances only with you, has eyes only for you, and leaves right at 10 pm, after you do." And, my mom told me, "he came from a good family, he wore smart suits, era educado, and he was even already a CPA at a bank(!)" More importantly, though, my mami explained, is the way he placed his hand on the small of her back, the way he looked at her, the way he made her feel like she was the only person on earth he could see, the delicate manner in which he treated her ~ 'esos detalles pequeños, tan importantes'. I told her that I know exactly what she means.

Now, she had other suitors, my mom. She told me about the young man who owned the liquor store in her neighborhood. He would always stand in the doorway and admire her as she walked by, or while they talked. My mom considered him as a suitor, momentarily, because, well, "Mira, tenia su propio negocio." He would be a good provider, since he had his own shop. But, she noticed he "hung around" the door a lot, and realized his nickname was 'Changuito'.

Then, there was the 15 or 16 year old boy who always hung out in the market where she worked, sipping soda, reading magazines, trying to chat her up. But, she pointed out, "Era nalgón! Y, tenía braces!" Later she found out this kid was Antonio's brother. She said to me on the phone, "How could ese chaparrito nalgoncito be related to the tall, debonair Antonio!?" Man, she is harsh!

Well, Antonio could not wait forever. He "was getting old" and wanted to make my mami his bride. So, one day he visited my mom's house, to speak with her parents ~ unannounced. My mom says she was in the hallway, hiding, dying of embarrassment because they were so poor ~ she was whispering to the universe, "Trágame Tierra!" Really. She is so dramática. She was asking the Earth to just open up and swallow her, because she was so mortified that Antonio had seen how poor they were. My mother could not hear what he told her parents.

My Abuelita then went to my mom's room and told her, "Mira hija, este joven dice que debemos abrir una cuenta en su banco." (!!!) He said he was there to see if my grandparents wanted to open an account at his bank! My mom's response? "But we don't have any money!"

~ Oh my gosh, at this point in our telephone conversation, my mom and I are screaming with laughter and love and melancholy and memory ~ my neighbors were probably wondering what was wrong with me, since I am *never* up at 6 am (not even for work!).

After my grandparents politely declined the free checking account offer, Antonio saw my mom, in the hallway, frozen in fear and pale as a ghost. He knew she was freaking out. He walked over to her and said, "Don't be afraid of why I am here. I want to marry you." [Swoon.] But, she explained to Antonio that she could not marry him, or anyone, because she had to take care of her family. And so Antonio left, and my mother continued to help support her family.

Since she had been born in Texas and was a U.S. citizen, she moved across the border, to Brownsville, to work in the cotton fields. [My gosh that is backbreaking work!] She told me she was paid $17. "Per day?!?" I asked. "No, per week!" she explained. After a while, she found out she could earn about the same amount of money as a housekeeper, through the Day Laborer Temp-Type Agency. She said each day she was assigned to a different home, but the work was almost as awful as the cotton fields: "Ay! Those people would save up all of their ironing for a month and then make me press it all in one day! Me tenían como bruta!" But, she says, she was very, very good at ironing and cleaning. So good, sadly, that she thought she was not capable of doing anything else.

One day, at the 'Temp Agency', they told her she should go to school, or would get sent to school. NO, she told them ~ she had to work and send money home. Only much later did she realize that what they meant was that she could get paid to go to school. "No me informé," she tells me. Attending school would have earned her the same salary as ironing clothes(!). Later, she moved back home where she found a job as a secretary en un taller. One day, the wife of the owner asked my mom to iron their clothes, as part of her job duties(!). Well, my mom excelled at ironing ~ so it is no surprise they took her off the desk and put her in front of an ironing board. She did leave the taller, though ~ only to go work the grave yard shift across the border, at the shrimp factory.

A few years later, after one of her sisters had gotten married, and her other sister was in college, and her two brothers were old enough to know better, my mom decided she could finally leave home. They had moved to Matamoros a few years earlier, and she had noticed my dad noticing her in the neighborhood where they lived, 'en la 10 de mayo'. They got married ~ and the rest is history.

~ ~ ~

And that, explains my mom to me, is how she ended up with only a high-school education, but with stellar household skills, exceptional resilience to hard labor, and an appreciation of that skill that even the poorest of families valued: ironing ~ everything pressed, prim and proper, from clothes to curtains to lace to linens. So ingrained in her is the importance of ironing, that I have images of her ironing my father's undershirts when we were very poor and lived in the Northside of Houston. The bleached and pressed shirts were important to my father: they represented the debonair white collar man he was underneath his blue collar exterior, drenched in sweat from working every day on construction sites, in the blistering Texas sun. For my mom, it was a display of her absolute perfect ironing ~ really, you should see her work. She tells me that when I was about 8 or 10, I would watch her, in awe, as she ironed my father's undershirts, then folded each one carefully and piled them into a perfect square tower of white cotton. I wanted to iron like she did, I wanted to impress my father, I wanted to help the family like she did. So, one day she said to me, "OK ~ here you go." She let me stand on a little box to reach the ironing board, and so I began my ironing apprenticeship with her.

~ ~ ~

Only this morning on the phone did I realize just HOW vital that seemingly unimportant skill is to my mother: it represents how she helped support her family, and bring them all to Texas to obtain their citizenship. To her, it represents her "only skill" since she never went to college. And, it represents the best way she knows how to care for us ~ to always be the best at what she does best, and in so doing, help her family look their best.

Really ~ the simple act of ironing (and her pride in it), over a lifetime, is like the superficial anatomy that shields her heart and soul from everything she feels she didn't accomplish. And now I understand, for the first time, why she chastised us so harshly for not doing those things well enough when we were kids ~ we always complained that when we wanted to help her clean or wanted to iron our own clothes, she would yell at us for not doing it right.

Well, she didn't want us to be good at it. We had other, bigger things to excel at ~ study, travel, language. And, too, she felt she had some skill to assert, something that only she was good at, better than us at doing it. We just never saw it that way.

Now I do.

People make fun of me because I always want to iron my clothes, even if it's a pair of jeans or casual t-shirt ~ my nickname in law school was 'La Planchadita'. But I cried this morning when I hung up the phone, after my mom said, "I love you ~ talk soon". I cried because I finally understand some deep, profound element of her being ~ as silly as it all may sound to you ~ and because I don't care now if you make fun of my ironing ~ ~ because every single time the burst of steam hits my face, I think of my mom ~ and her lifetime of ironing, and her lifetime of helping me straighten out my own life.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

What is it you want Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon. ~ George Bailey, It's a Wonderful Life.

S. died today. B. was with him every step of the way. Until the very end.

And only for them do I want to open up this little book again, just this once perhaps, and remember the adoration I feel for them ~ my awe at the strength of them both. Or perhaps, this is a better way to end this chapter ~ with the strength of S. and the love and loyalty of B.

~ ~ ~ ~

B. woke up this morning knowing he had to tell S. there was nothing more to be done ~ he spent the day saying goodbye to his friend, his mentor, his business partner, his second father. What would I think, feel, say ~ if my closest friend told me I would die today?

I did not meet S. ~ I knew him only through the stories B. told me ~ the spark in his eyes when he talked about S., the years B. spent learning his art from S., the determination in B.'s voice as he told me the plan ~ the plan to help S. fight the cancer that was invading his body. But today the fight ended ~ anything to be done would end the same ~ we would lose S.

~ ~ ~ ~

In the weeks B. had spent
arranging my meetings in Los Angeles, I never knew that, in between all
of our emails and conversations, he was shuttling back and forth
between the hospital, work, meetings with doctors, phone calls,
research, surgery, chemo ~ taking care of S. ~ and me, too.

I woke up that morning at 5 am to pack. One last email check, one final cruel cut, and I died one final death. I opened the door. I walked out. I paid the cab driver extra to drive fast ~ to get me away ~ to get me closer to something good.

I was late, as usual. The last one on the plane, right before they closed the door. Somehow, that seemed appropriate. I slept for an hour, and dreamed away the colorless and cold hate of that Oakland morning ~ and walked out into the brightness and heat of the City of Angels.

~ ~ ~ ~

That night, he made time for me, but S. was there with us, too ~ stories and memories and plans and...Hope. And I realized that even as B. helped S. face death, B. was bringing me back to life.

Later, we were surrounded by music, dancing, stories, the opera singer from Tel Aviv, more musicians, the superstar from Africa and his lovely wife ~ the stories of his work in the West Bank, his day in Jenin sharing music with children. He spoke softly but he was larger than life; his smile was as bright as Jupiter ~ and we were the charged particles within his orbit ~ his Galilean Moons.

~ ~ ~ ~

Everything that is lost on Earth is to be found on the Moon. ~ Orlando Furioso

The next night, we walked around the Hollywood Hills, lost in thought, "accidentally breaking into" yards and innocently nodding our heads to the cop who drove by. The Crescent Moon smiled down at us, its glow competing with the glare of the billboards and broken dreams down below on Sunset Boulevard.

Later, I would tell B that his loyalty, devotion, love, faith ~ his utter goodness ~ inspired me ~ that I wanted to be, simply, a star in his orbit.

That night, on that walk, though, I remembered that Orlando's unrequited love for Angelica drives him mad ~ furioso. Astolfo has to fly to the Moon where everything lost on Earth is to be found....including Orlando's wits. Astolfo gathers Orlando's wits into a bottle, and back on Earth he makes Orlando sniff them ~ regaining his sanity.

I inhaled deeply, the cool night air warming my heart.

I exhaled ~ Madness. Fury. Frenzy. I let Orlando Furioso float up to the Moon ~ and matched my steps to B's, next to me.

But before Orlando went mad, he was in Love. Orlando Furioso is a continuation of Orlando's unfinished romance ~ Orlando Innamorato. Unfinished. Like that ball of clay I just put back in the Fire. Like B., who takes up where Orlando ends ~with "ardent devotion to Love and Loyalty, shedding warmth and sunshine wherever the lapse of ages has rendered the legends colourless and cold."

~ ~ ~ ~

B.'s spirit has led me on an internal journey for weeks. That musical night, his hand on the small of my back guided me through the crowd, through the night, and into daybreak. And so, when I crawled into bed at 5:30 in the morning, as the sky was beginning to blush, I was over the moon ~ for the amazing people I had just met, for the unbelievable person who had been there all along, for my friends who waited up for me, worried that I was lost because I didn't call. But I knew exactly where I was ~ I told B. where I had been and he told me where I need to be.

Monday, May 26, 2008

My maternal grandparents, Samuel y Maria, live in a little trailer in Edinburgh, Texas. Alone. 'uelito is 83, often seen wearing his cowboy hat, and 'uelita is 81. They have been married 50+ years. My grandmother broke her leg last week and I talked to her today, when my parents went to visit her. Speaking with her, laughing with her, made me so unbelievably happy ~ the strength of her character and the lightness of her laughter wiped away weeks of weakness that have been weighing me down. She is amazing.

The women in the family are all coquetas on the outside and profoundly strong on the inside ~ the men are macho on the outside and cariñoso softies on the inside. All of us have a special, playful way of speaking to each other ~ we're never entirely serious ~ the gentle goading usually bundles up any serious words or worrisome thoughts and pushes them into corners of our minds, to be unwrapped later. So, my conversation with 'eulita about her fall and her broken leg went like this (in our informal version of Spanish, with the English translation down below):

Me: Look little lady, what, were you roller skating again?Grandma: [laughing] Well you know...I like my roller skates.Me: So, what happened?Grandma: Oh sweetie ~ I made it 81 years without any broken bones ~ and look what happens. But what can you do? That's life. But you come from very, very sturdy stock sweetheart. Don't forget that. So, at least everyone is here with me.Me: Oh grandma! If you wanted attention, you didn't have to do all that!Grandma: Well, your grandfather and your dad are out buying a basin to give me a bath in the garage, to leave me all dolled up.Me: You are scandalous! What about your leg?Grandma: They have me in a cast, and they inserted a rod and screw. Like what you have in your back!Me: We're the bionic women!Grandma: Oh sweetie. I really want to see you.

On the phone, my grandfather arrived, with the basin they were going to bathe her in. He still calls me "marisita," as if I was still 10. He survived a cancer scare last year, and rarely leaves my grandmother's side ~ except maybe when he's cutting a rug:

I'm making plans to visit both sets of grandparents in August, in the stifling Texas heat which will surely be softened by the sparkle in my grandmother's eyes, my grandfather's quiet confianza, and their sunny laughter. I hope to live such a long and loving life as they have; I hope to be as strong as they are ~ someday. For now, I will let them fuss over me, as if I'm still 10, because even though I am the oldest grandchild in the bunch, I have always been their baby. As proof, I leave you with the birthday card they sent me when I was 22 or 23, complete with sparkly stickers inside. ~ :).

Friday, May 23, 2008

I never re-publish old posts ~ but once in a while I have an amazing day, or a disheartening day, and often an old post will ring true ~ again. Sometimes I think that is a good thing ~ like keeping my emotions in check, or recognizing how I react to the same certain things, or, even better, realizing how often I have amazing days. Other times I think it is awful ~ wondering whether I've been spinning my wheels in the mud for years, and still haven't learned my lesson(s). I can't decide which category this week falls into ~ either way, good or bad, it has been eventful, enlightening, intriguing, and insightful. And so, this old post, from December 2, 2004, still rings true ~ loud and clear. The original post was written from a more dispirited perspective, after a particularly tough day ~ but the feeling I had after writing it was intensely positive. Today perhaps I'm re-posting this from that positive perspective, but I'd sum it all up in exactly these words, in exactly this emotion ~ 1,268 days later ~ 30,456 hours of life lessons. Back to square one? Or 360-degrees back to the real me? You tell me. ~

I've been told I eat my corn flakes with passion ~~ that I can talk to a tree with such fervor it'll reach out and hug me. My past boyfriends always adored my "passion," until we had an argument and then they would simply castigate it as "irrational" and "emotional". Me, I like my passion, crazy as it is sometimes...OK, it's often loud, sometimes disruptive, occasionally misguided ~ but never not true, never not profound, never false. Recently I was asked, "yes but aren't you just faking it?" when I expressed how deeply I felt about something; and that question cut through me like the double-edged sword on which Yin and Yang balance precipitously...deeply, emotionally...enlightening. I've been cut down recently, the fire behind my passion has been doused with the doubtful waters of the disbelieving ~~ last night's music and food and conversation was a bit like twine, wrapping itself around my damaged limbs, helping me hold it all together.....and so I remember that I love my passion ~ fueled by Mexican sensibility, tempered by an Americanized sense, colored by clove and cinnamon emotions.

If you feel passion about something, show it ~ shout it ~ share it.......and if for some reason something keeps you from feeling, or expressing, your passion, then mooch off someone else's passion until you can grow some of your own to share..... just don't cut down anyone else's passionate personality ~ our forest needs those kinds of trees. In that comic strip up above, Earl is the lovable pup, who is always hanging out with his best friend....Mooch, the curious cat from next door. If you can't be an Earl, be a Mooch ~ or maybe a Tom-Tom.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Thank you to the very cool OaklandGoods for showing me the way to the wonderful online Oakland Collection at the Oakland Museum of California's website. The Oakland collection includes over 7,000 objects, from as large as a fire engine to as small as a stone marble, and some amazingphotographs of Oakland’s past, some dating back
to the 19th century. I love vintage photographs and I lost myself for over an hour learning more about Oakland's colorful history through sepia photographs, blue-tinted portraits, and cloudy black-and-white images. The website also gave me a brief account of the birth of Oakland and my little neighborhood (aka No Sleep Til Brooklyn):

Oakland, as a city,
was founded 150 years ago, in 1852. Initially it was a small village
along what is now Broadway. In the following decades, the village
grew to become a commercial center, especially after it became the
western terminus of the first transcontinental railroad (1869). It
grew still larger by annexation of Brooklyn (1872), Vernon Heights
(1891), the area north to Berkeley (1897), and the area south to San
Leandro (1909). In 1910, the visionary Mayor Mott founded the city’s
first municipal museum, the Oakland Public Museum. As a cutting edge
museum in 1910, it began to acquire the California Collections, which now, over 90 years later, number more than
one million objects.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

A few Tuesday's ago in March, deep in the soul-less darkness of a late-night Council meeting, a friend said to me, "Come snow camping with us this weekend!" I thought I heard her say, "only a couple of miles to hike in," and "curl up around the wood burning stove." It was late; I had a brutal cold; I was disoriented; I was unclear on the actual intersection of the concepts of "snow" and "camping." So, I said "Yes." ~~~ I thought the weekend would look something like this:

The actual weekend was something like that photo ~ except without the cozy.....or the warmth. Because it actually started and ended with hours of this:

Snow camping, it occurred to me too late, involves hours of trekking in the snow and wind to actually reach the mythical snow hut, where you imagine a cozy wood burning stove and plush pillows are waiting for you. ~ But I am getting way ahead of myself ~ I need to back up, to explain how in the heck I found myself trekking through snow and wind and sleet and ice, on legs that felt like wet noodles after a few hours, wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to woman-kind.

So my two friends, who shall be known here as Mama Bear (MB) and Papa Bear (PB) (because they were so good to me), are really great outdoor enthusiasts. PB, in fact, is an extreme climber, skier, hiker, biker, and all around scaler of tall mountains. So I should have known that when he said, "Oh it's just a few miles," that what he really meant was, "You will experience many Into-Thin-Air moments and you will feel like you are near death for most of the trip." He and his friends call this "Type-2" fun ~ you know, not real hilarious "Type-1" fun but the kind of fun that you don't know is fun, until well after the shock has worn off and you realized you survived; then, it's fun. But I didn't remember all this when I said, "YES!" to their invitation. I figured they said snow trekking, in snow shoes, not skiing ~ anyone can do THAT! I was glad we weren't going to ski up the trail to the hut.

Because you see, I have really only been skiing once. Years ago. I was too cheap to pay for a lesson, so a friend, an expert skier, gave me a few tips, which mostly involved his shouting "just go pigeon-toed!" I didn't fall too much during the quote-unquote lesson, so I put on a brave face and said, "Let's do it! Let's hit my first run!" . . . . the bunny slope. Woo-Hoo!

It was my first time on a ski lift ~ and you know, those damn things move WAY too fast! And how are you supposed to gracefully jump/slide/fall/slip off the lift at the summit? I thought of all this as we went up, up, up the slope (OK, well, not too far up ~ it was the bunny slope after all). On cue, I fell off the lift at the top of the bunny slope and ducked just in time before the chair bashed my head in. Then, I tried to stand up boldly, as if I totally and completely meant to perform that acrobatic feat off the lift, but I had fallen down too close to the path of the lift ~ where it was pure ice, not snow. Again, on cue, because I'm good for that, I started sliding, I mean skiing, down that run. I was frantically waving my poles around, unsure how the hell to steer the damn skis. I tried to avoid, and then purposefully hit, the perfect kids who were slaloming down the damn run. I started gaining speed ~ TOO much speed ~ I got scared ~ I remembered that my friend told me that if I wasn't sure how to stop, that I should just DROP, just FALL into the gentle, soft, welcoming snow that will cushion your gentle descent.

So, I did that ~ except (a) you should never really just FALL OVER when you're racing down the run at an ungodly speed, and (b) my skis DID NOT POP OFF. Skis are supposed to pop off. They are supposed to do that so they are not in your way when you fall, and perhaps start rolling. Mine stayed on. Which means that as I tumbled down the bunny slope, I looked like a shambles of a tumbleweed as the skis pummeled me while I rolled down the mountain, I mean, bunny slope. And, because this was the bunny slope, and I was near the bottom, the chair lift was very close up above. So, I could hear people, literally, shouting, "OOOOH!" and "OUCHHHH!" and "UGHHH!" as they watched me. Roll. Down. A Bunny Slope.

And then I came to a full stop. At the bottom of the bunny slope. Face down. In the snow. With my skis still on. And little kids zipped past me wearing ski outfits that cost more than my car.

So, that was the only time I have ever been skiing. Remember this, OK?

Now back to the story. We drove to Lake Tahoe Friday night, to stay with friends and get a little acclimated to the altitude, since we would be climbing so much the next day. The next morning, it finally occurred to me to ask what the plan was for hiking in ~ by then, at least I knew the hike in was *6* miles, not 2. But I can do 6 miles, so I wasn't too worried. I just wanted to know what trail we would take in.

"Well, you see," started PB ~ "here's the beauty of my plan: we are going to shave off the first two miles of the hike!" GREAT, I thought. Four miles will be NO problem! What do we have to do? So PB begins to explain: "Well you see, we're going to take the Mt. Lincoln Express to the summit behind Sugar Bowl...."

"Wait, the what?" I asked. "What's the Lincoln Express?"

"The ski lift! That way, the LIFT takes us up the first two miles! Brilliant, right?!" . . . . I stared in silence.

Then he says, "Oh, but wait, there is just ONE CATCH." . . . . My silence gets louder.

"You see, you have to actually have skis or a snow board to get on the lift ~ they don't want people snowshoeing up there behind the closed area, so we do have to take boards and skis with us."

I disregarded momentarily the phrase, "closed area," and asked, "Wait; skis and boards AND snow shoes? Where do we put all that?"

"Oh! We're just going to strap you into my snow board, and we'll tie the snow shoes to your back pack. We'll take the lift, jump off at the summit, trek in a bit, and leave the snow boards under a tree somewhere until we return."

Seriously. PB said all this with a straight face as he sipped coffee and munched on wheat toast with jelly.

All I could say was, "OK ~ I'm just a passenger on this bullet train to hell anyway." And then we took off to Sugar Bowl. Here I should note that I did not have snow boots ~ I had waterproof HIKING boots. "No problem!" smiled PB ~ "we'll strap you in tight to the board." I admitted I've never been on a snow board. "Haven't you been on a skateboard? It's the same thing!" ~ This did not help.

We arrived at Sugar Bowl, bought our lift tickets, and meandered up to the Mt. Lincoln Express lift. I tried to delay strapping into the snow board as long as I could. At the end of the line, with little old ladies and toddlers speeding past me doing handstands on their snow boards, PB and MB strapped me in, one foot only, and then instructed me to SHIMMY or SLIDE forward, kinda sideways. LIKE A CRAB. With snow shoes strapped to my backpack! Oh yes people ~ this is as sexy as it gets.

When we reached the front of the line, we saw HOW FAST the lift was swinging towards us. "OH!" I thought ~ "THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT THE MT. LINCOLN EXPRESS!" Oh yes, the altitude had made me slow, too.

For now, let me show you the "Before" and "After" picture of preparing for the hike in ~ that is, Before having to suit up for the trek, and After shimmying into several layers of ninja-black fleece:

Sunday, May 04, 2008

I just finished the little translation gig I mentioned a few days ago ~ I translated campaign literature for a Green Party candidate outside of the Bay Area running for Congress. It was fun ~ I really enjoy translating English to Spanish, especially phrases such as "Democrat/Republican cabal" and "clean sweep of Congress." Technically, during that contract job, I was up to four jobs ~ my full-time policy job plus two others I won't even tell you about.

Now that I'm back down to three jobs, I'm hustling for more translation or editing work ~ I feel like my Dad. When I was growing up, my Dad always seemed to have 2-4 "entrepreneurial projects" going on ~ he always had his construction work, but then there was the used car dealership, the rental properties, a restaurant I think, and a few others I am probably forgetting. My mom has always helped manage my father's businesses, but she's also always had her hand in various home business ventures, selling all sorts of "products for the home" to las vecinas y las comadres. I grew up with boxes piled around the house, of merchandise from Stanley, Avon, and Tiara, to name few; and these days it's vitamin supplements which she swears will help you live to 100. Bless her heart.

When I started college, I didn't really need a job because I had a scholarship and was living at home ~ but I had worked since I was 14 or 15, so I didn't really know how to be just a student. I found a job at a chiropractic office, translating for Spanish-speaking patients and other office work. Then, one of the patients, who was some VP at Smith Barney, asked to hire me for cold calls to companies in Mexico. So, I would wake up around 5 am, work at Smith Barney from about 7 am to 9 am, go to class, then go work at the chiropractic office for a few hours after class. In law school, even though you're not supposed to work in your 1L year, I kept managing the law office I had worked at for several years. During my summer clerkships, I would clerk during the day and work at the old law office at night. It was only partially for the money ~ mostly I didn't want to abandon my old boss and his busy practice. These days, it's for the money. ~

Over the years, my side jobs have run the gamut from portrait studio baby photographer to pet food pusher to box office girl at a gay night club to posing as a "businesswoman of color" in several ads for high-tech companies; someone called me once to say, "I'm at the airport, and, um, there's a huge poster of you with the words, 'The Revolution is Coming'." How's that for varied experience?

When I hear someone talk about their one job, I laugh and think of that 'Hey Mon' episode on In Living Color where the daughter brings home a doctor and the family exclaims, "ONE job?!? HOW will he support you!?!?" So, as I begin my on-line search for another job # 4, I leave you with this hilarious 'Hey Mon Airlines' episode ~ it's brilliant.

Thursday, May 01, 2008

A year or so ago, I began reading Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran, A Memoir in Books. I didn't know anything about the book when I saw it, but I was immediately interested in it because it was about exploration of the works of some of my favorite writers: Vladimir Nabokov, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry James, and Jane Austen. I also thought it would be an interesting way to learn more about the politics of Iran, the Iranian revolution, the Iran-Iraq war, etc. Plus, the book was "free" because I bought two other books that day.

Initially, I was captivated by the writing ~ it was at moments vivid, intimate, uninhibited, and, in certain phrases, simply lovely. But after a few chapters, I found I couldn't identify with Nafisi and her personal story ~ she seemed to me (from what little I read) to have lived quite a privileged life (her literary and political family, her life before the Revolution, as a professor, as a writer, and later her life in the States). I couldn't get past the image I quickly created about her; and so I put the book down (actually, I complained loudly and tossed the book back on my bookshelf).

Recently, for some unknown reason, I decided to give the book another chance. I told myself that I do appreciate the beautiful writing and that perhaps that appreciation would outweigh, or even enrich, whatever criticism I had of her personally. I also read a little more about her and about the book, and various critiques of the book ~ for non-fiction I do generally like to have the "back story" on the writer and the narrative in general. I learned more about the wholeness of the story before I went back to consider the particular morsels of the moments that sum up the story.

I reached the chapter where Nafisi discusses how upset one her students becomes when she hears the label the others have placed on her, how they define her ~ whereas one is a poet and another a painter, they sum her up as a "contradiction in terms." And today at lunch, sitting out in the sun, this part stunned me in its stark reflection of my reality, at this moment in time:

The sun and clouds that defined Nassrin's infinite moods and temperaments were too intimate, too inseparable. She lived by startling statements that she blurted out in a most awkward manner. My girls all surprised me at one point or another, but she more than the rest.~In class, we were discussing the concept of the villain in the novel. ~~ Humbert, like most dictators, was interested only in his own vision of other people. He had created the Lolita he desired, and he would not budge from that image. I reminded them of Humbert's statement that he wished to stop time and keep Lolita forever on "an island of entranced time," a task undertaken only by Gods and poets.

And I sat there on the warm grass, lamenting the cold reality of the visions and villains in my own life ~ of someone creating an image of me so idealistic that there was no living up to it. And when I failed, as anyone would have, the dark rigidity of the image would not bend to allow any new light into its corners. The darkness of this helplessness ~ as someone else shapes the ball of clay that is You, and then destroys it, and then never lets you place a hand on re-centering and throwing the ball of clay back onto the wheel, to reshape it ~ it is blinding.

Years ago, through some freak accident, I suffered from Vertigo. I felt like I was spinning and whirling, completely, for about a week. Everything around me seemed like it was moving, but then so did I ~ it was like a double dose of a swift orbit ~ around me and within me. And recently this feeling has surfaced for me not only in the three-dimensional world of my reality, but in the simulated two-dimensional Web 2.0 world: you present and perceive certain images ~ of yourself and of other people. I see now that when the fluidity of cyberspace and your real personality are confronted by the rigidity of the zeros and ones of our computers...well, reality and flexibility and lucidity are lost ~ and so are you.

And all of these themes ~ control, betrayal of vision, fear, deception, loss ~ are beautifully portrayed in one of my favorite films: Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo. I adore James Stewart ~ but I was struck more by a simple line uttered by Kim Novak, as Madeleine: Only one is a wanderer; two together are always going somewhere.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

For the past several weeks, I have been sorting through countless boxes of the documentation of the past 10 years or so of my life. I have been ruthless in sorting items into boxes marked for 'shredding', 'recycling', or 'Goodwill'. Four boxes to the shredder, 10 boxes to Goodwill, and countless trips to the recycling bin. There remains a small box of items I am cautiously keeping, for now. One of those items is an envelope of photos of a weekend whitewater rafting trip I took years ago with 10-12 friends. Through the magic of modern technology, and the nice guys at Ritz Camera, I was able to convert the film to digital, and now I may toss out the photos anyway. But here I have the digital proof of the string of moments that made it all so memorable.

The memory of the trip is as vivid today as the roar of the rapids that weekend was deafening. You can't really tell in the photo above, but we had an "all-chick" raft to take on Maytag, a Class V cascade on the north fork of the Yuba River. As you approach the bend in the river where Maytag lurks, you have to pull over and park your raft, then hike over some boulders to scout the rapid. Maytag cascades violently down into an electric shock of white foam that you have to quickly navigate to either pull out into the eddy or get sucked into the next cascade, Son of Maytag, a Class IV rapid.

As we all parked our rafts and hiked over, we heard the roar of the rapids before we caught a glimpse of its brutal force. Even before we reached the top of the boulder, some people were saying, "No way!" Then, as we all stood shakily atop the slick slab of massive rock, the rest, in unison, said, "NO fucking way." Maytag leered at us, spitting its foam up, daring us to get closer.

There was good reason for the resounding refusal of most of the group to even consider Maytag. Earlier that morning, our raft had capsized in the raging river, swollen from the recent snow melt. A massive wave pushed the front of the raft straight up into the sky and literally tossed everyone out...except for me. Somehow, I had held onto the rope at the front ~ I was completely vertical as everyone else, including our guide, fell out; and then I came crashing down, face first into the raft. When I peeked back up, I saw heads bobbing up from under the freezing water, their eyes full of confusion and fear ~ it all happened in a few seconds. Someone's shoe floated by; I heard people in the other rafts shouting directions, but the words were drowned out by the wailing of the waves around me. I grabbed a paddle as it floated by and scurried over towards the shore; then a friend's head bobbed up right beside me. Somehow, I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into the damn raft ~ I have no idea how. We made it to shore and we saw the others had reached the sides of the rushing river ~ lying back on rocks, panting and shaking.

Because river rafting is such a clear metaphor for life ~ when you're deep in the middle of it, there's nothing to do except to get back in the damn raft and start again; the rapids only flow in one direction.

Fear or no fear, there was no going back, and no one to pick us up midway through. So, when we reached the boulders overlooking Maytag, many in the group had already been slapped around enough by the river. Six of us, though, all women, stayed silent. I don't think any of us looked at each other for reassurance, but almost all at once we said, "Let's do it."

My heart was pounding as we checked our gear and climbed back into the raft. Our guide, a woman, told us to lean forward as much as we could, until we could almost fall out of the raft ~ to face the rapids head on, paddle furiously, and then hang on for dear life and DUCK into the raft at her signal. She was amazing ~ shouting direction to us as the first rapid belted us back a few feet. Then, as I felt the free-fall start, my heart soaring up into my throat, she screamed at us to duck ~ in perfect synchronicity we all turned in towards the center of the raft, and hung onto the rope as the raft did a nosedive into the foaming mouth of Maytag.

We slammed down, hard, into the center of the rapid, and immediately sat back out on the edges of the raft ~ to paddle furiously over to the eddy before getting sucked into Son of Maytag. The roar of the rapids and my heart was deafening ~ but when we stopped moving, all I could hear was the cheering and clapping of our friends ~ standing tall at the top of the boulder above us. And through the glossy glare of the sun and the water I could see also the satisfaction beaming brightly from the six of us who had climbed back into the raft.

And so I remember now ~ the trick is to hold on tightly and ride out the tumultuous tide. With any luck, your friends will be on the other side cheering for you.